


as i lace your hands in mine

by writingbunny



Series: 'twixt crystal shards, my love lies with you [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Rutting, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, i dont fucking know this was supposed to be cute fuck, im crying send help i cant do this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingbunny/pseuds/writingbunny
Summary: it'd been a harebrained idea, half formed in her head, a result of the mild frustration of both wanting him and having him - and subsequently not being able to get enough of him.she hadn't meant to ease him this far....and yet.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: 'twixt crystal shards, my love lies with you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137656
Comments: 58
Kudos: 75





	1. i hope you feel my heart beat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [don't you hear me howling?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080782) by [thepapernautilus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus). 



> hahahahahahahahah FUCK

He doesn’t know how they ended up like this. 

In this --- situation. With them pressed against each other in a frenzy, hidden inside a dingy old broom closet, with her nails running scores of red lines against his back, his teeth marking up the pretty pale skin on her neck. 

He doesn’t know how it started. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. But by the twelve–

All he knows is that he doesn’t want it to **_stop_**. 

—

And it’d started. Innocently enough, perhaps.

_( isn’t that what they always say? )_

It was to be a normal day, with normal errands. Giga’s running wild on the horizon and Tataru ordering them to and fro to manage the cargo to be delivered to the Rising Stones.

He could claim that it’d started with the cargo, of course, but then he’d supposed it might have begun way before that. Perhaps as soon as they’d woken up, entangled in each other’s arms, when each had been ever so reluctant to so much as leave the bed.

And with his arms curled about her frame, and his lips pressing languid kisses against the long slope of her neck – it had been a battle in sheer futility indeed, to even _attempt_ to remain so committed to their intended tasks for the day.

For it was hard to remember, yes; yet it was even harder to forget, to deny – the husky whimpers that drew themselves from her mouth, the delightful shudders of need that _swelled_ against his touch, the taut tension laced within the very framework of her spine – as he hitched her legs around his waist and eased himself down into a familiar position, into her –

**_KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK_ **

And right back to earth.

“Up and at it, lovebirds! Rowena’s ladies wait for no one, as they always say, and I will not have her charge us extra for your _particular_ delays. Chop chop, Scions!”

“Nghh --”

“Tataru –!”

“ _Now_ , you two!”

Twin groans that escaped the pair despite themselves, Jazzele whimpering something _awful_ into the empty air as he buried his face flush against the swell of her chest, hoping against hope that he could fully bury _himself_ into her just the same – entirely too aware of his suddenly stilled hips, the tip of his throbbing cock lining up just halfway into her heat, where he could already feel her squeezing him, holding him, fluttering against the swollen head of his length like a glove –

Oh, great Azeyma – how _glorious_ it would feel to take her so.

And how Jazzele tested his subsequent **_restraint_** so.

“Please don’t tell me you have _any_ plan of taking leave of my body so soon.” Jazzele whispers softly in dismay, a distinct pout curving along her lips as she hitches her leg higher against his hip, nudging him down, closer and closer towards her – an unspoken invitation for him to sheathe himself in fully, to take his unquenching fill of her – even against Tataru’s evident disapproval at the door.

He, of course, has better control of his facilities then that.

Or so he’d _like_ to say, as he chuckles against her skin and grants her request, slipping himself in just a little further – only to stop just before the hilt; to relish in the way her breath stutters in her chest, body tensing, hips rolling, as she keens his name in craven _desire_ –

The laughter that rings against her chest does not go unheard.

“Raha –” She whines, as nails claw against his skin in sharp reproach. Her attempts to take him in herself are derailed by the hands that hold her hips hard against the bed, the gentle press of his thumbs against the lines of her waist making something _delirious_ rise out of her in need. “Do not _tease_ , my love.”

He cannot help but smile. “I assure you, I have no intention of doing so, Jazzele. I am mere _ly_ – “ His voice breaks off for a moment, as her heat clenches around him in a way that felt so deliciously right, so sublimely _breathtaking_ , that it is an absolute **wonder** that he does not spend himself in her from that mere action alone.

“Merely – “ He continues, his voice a ragged thing, as his hands tighten on her skin in a bruising bid for self-control, and she feels her toes _curl_ in anticipation of it. “Attempting to relish the absolutely _exquisite_ sensation of having you like this in my arms, before I do - unfortunately - have to take my leave of you for the day; preferably before Tataru _and_ Krile make every attempt to break down the door once again, most likely with _Thancred_ in tow this time.” And he snorts, a regal thing coming from him. "And Twelve knows that he'd quite enjoy that, I'm sure." 

And despite herself – even as she trembles against him with need, quivering around him in a state of ardent desire, can she herself not deny the bemused laugh that escapes her lips at the very concept – although it quickly edges off into a matching cry for them both, as the motion involuntarily makes her clench tighter around him – drawing him in further, until he was so, so close, and she was so, so full, that she could _weep_ \----

She growls instead, and then she begs, arching her neck backwards as she _pleads_.

For something. Anyone. Anything. To grant them enough time that he can take her and hold her and have his absolute way with her, for as long as she could get her fill of him. And her hips tremble against his grasp, and his hands clench as he mewls at her something soothing, for as sensitive as he knows her to be, it’s easy enough to ascertain that she’s _close_.

Close, close, so very, very close --- but not yet close enough.

And he leans down to kiss her, a soft apology of sorts, as he brushes his lips gently against her own, coaxing his tongue past her mouth, until he’s indulging in her delectable taste – until he’s savoring her very essence.

And it’s so easy to forget – so easy to want to stay, right here, in her arms. Entangled with each other until the sun set all around them, and they could never be apart.

But he pulls away, eventually. He pulls away gently, to stare back into fluttering eyes of dazzling, dazzling blue, to brush lilac strands from her cheek, a tender and soft smile forthcoming –

“We’ll continue tonight, my love. I swear to you. As soon as I can have you again, I will.” His voice is soothing, entrancing, layered with the promise of affection and dearest adoration, and love – sweet love. Even as her heart and body and soul begs not to wait, she cannot help but respond in kind.

She is soothed. But for the moment.

“Then you’ll wait for me? You’ll keep yourself hard for me?”

And _by the Twelve_ , she’s not sure what prompts her to say that – crude as it is, the accompanying imagery more _erotic_ than anything she’s thought of in a long while –

But oh, to see the _flush_ that erupts on his face at her words. The broken chuckle slash gasp, as though he wasn’t sure what to make of it himself –

For some reason, it calls something to her – something. Stubborn. And intent. And devilish. 

Very. Very. 

Devilish. 

“Will you?” She asks again, a serious note to her words as she speaks.

And when he finally manages a handle on his emotions, clearing his throat in attempt to rise above the sheer _suggestiveness_ of her words ( utterly unused to them, even from her ) he tries to respond, chuckling in clear amusement as he brushes his hand against the swell of her cheek, “At risk of sounding like an undeniable pervert; Jazz - when it comes to you, I truly doubt that I could ever manage my body to be anything otherwise.”

And she knows it to be true. She knows that, she believes it, even as he stares down into her eyes and tries to assuage her with his touch. He’s written it on her heart and on her mind and on her body, and knows she was all that lay claim to his entire body and soul in turn, so there was never any need to have to try to test it. 

And yet.

And yet.

\--- and yet.

And yet something snaps in her mind in the aftermath, as she gathers her innate strength to suddenly reverse their positions so; a swift shift of movement, evidently taking him by surprise, as he abruptly finds himself pinned down to the bed, crimson eyes shot wide open, and staring as his inspiration, his champion, his living, breathing heart – took her rightful place upon her throne, which is to say –

He was slipped, snug, straight to the hilt down into her throbbing, quivering heat – and oh, oh, _oh_ \-- did it take his very breath away.

“J – Jazzele?”

And his heart beats like a hummingbird in his chest, in time with the throbbing of his length where it remains sheathed within her dripping heat, where the sensations began to swell, hazing across his mind as fissions of electricity raced up his spine, prompted by her hips gradually beginning to undulate across his thighs; slipping him in, and slipping him out, all the way to the tip, and then back again –

Her eyes do not leave his face, as his breath starts to quicken, the gradually rising tension prompted by her movements making both of their faces slacken with need – with desire – as she rides him faster, harder, furious as she takes her pleasure on him, again and again and _again_ –

And just when he thinks they’ll both find release, when he finally thinks it’ll be too much, this gradually coiling web of _need_ as he pants and grunts and holds ever tight onto the gorgeous, delicious flesh of her thighs -----

( By the Twelve, she was a fucking _goddess_ – )

All of sudden ---

She stops.

And he stops. And then the very air between them seems to _still_.

And his mind had coiled down to this exact moment, to this very instant, and he feels himself suspended on the brink – clutching her for dear life, as he throbs and she quivers and not one of them has come apart just yet as far as he can tell, and yet ---

And yet.

And yet she slips him from within her, rising off his length with a shuttered gasp, as trembling thighs inch their way backwards; her slick still glistening on his cock, as she feels her core contract around the missing, _gorgeous_ fill of his length –

“My love…?”

He asks, as soon as he can manage even a broken whisper of thought – wondering what he’d done wrong, why was she leaving his bed so, why was she wrapping her body in her robe, making to leave the room, why why why ---

“Jazzele – Jazz - wait, wait – !“

And she stops him, before he can quite manage to leave the bed. She stops him, and she bends down, and kisses him – hard and furious and _deep_ , and like all the need that’s ever raged in her body for him has risen to meet his own, and he feels himself respond in kind – already grasping for her, already beckoning her back –

And she pulls away, once again, a gasp on her lips and an apology on her tongue – so earnest, so kind –

He almost cannot bear the _ache_ that trembles in his heart as she dances out of his reach once more.

“Why are you leaving? Why do you tease me so, Jazzele? My love, my heart – “ He nearly begs against her in faint tears, at odds with the sudden feeling of _loss_ – of feeling as though she suddenly didn’t want him anymore –

Whatever torture he would bear from Emet-Selch would have been far, far preferable to _this_ –

But she does not leave. Not too quickly, as she bends at the knee to cradle his face in her grasp, pressing sweet, gentle kisses easily against every inch of his skin –

He wants to **sob**. To have her adore him so _truly_ , yet leave him hanging by a thread, as his body yearns for her with every painful **throb** –

“I’m sorry – I'm so sorry, I love you, Raha. With all my heart, I do – I promise you.” She whispers, her own heart quivering in her chest at the expression on his face, like she’d left him on his own – abandoned in the woods with no light left to guide him –

Gods, she was so fucking, fucking **_cruel_**.

She was going to owe him one after this. Owe him one, owe him ten. Owe him _everything_.

_‘But please indulge me, just this once.’_

She presses her lips to the corners of his eyes, stealing away at gathering tears with a softness so familiar to him, yet so at odds with her apparent intentions.

Despite himself, does the action soothe. And after a moment do his eyes flicker open, crimson meeting sapphire, the folds of hurt that’d blossomed within his chest gently easing the longer that she’d stayed with him, her continued presence ushering in the whispers of gratified comfort - 

And he seems hesitant to speak, uncertain of what he might say, when the fact remained that she’d still – brought him to the brink, and left him to dangle on the edge; licking his dry lips – his voice coming out in a soft, uncertain croak – “Is there a reason then, that you’re – you’re – “ He nods towards the robe, unwilling to let the fabric go within his grasp, unwilling to even so much as speak the word, lest he somehow have read her flurry of kisses all **_wrong_ **–

And he doesn’t need to say it, as she runs her thumb across his cheek, a small – if not somber – smile tilting at kiss bitten lips,

Her voice, when she finally manages the words – is laced with an apology clear across her tongue.

“I just – I wanted to try, something with you; I'm sorry I didn't think to explain –“ She begins, as a tint of flush once again begins to coat her cheeks, the curiosity of what she was saying soon peaking his interest – an ear canted forward in evident confusion –

“What do you mean?”

He’s not sure what to expect, really, and perhaps it's the absolutely last thing on his mind when she suddenly inches forward; hiding her face against his neck, lips against his skin – concealing the shame in her eyes and in her cheeks, as she whispers out a soft statement that was near _severe_ enough to make his heart actually **stop**.

“When you said - you wouldn't be able to help yourself otherwise, I just thought – “ She takes a sharp breath, and he feels a potent _thrill_ shoot down the length of his spine. “That perhaps I’d like to test that. You and I, restraining ourselves from each other. So that tonight... after our chores — you might take me, against the wall, and against the floor, and anyway you’d have me – and prove to me that I can _tempt_ you that much, even without my touch - until I’m completely marked up and fucked and entangled in the very _essence_ of you.”

**_Wicked white._ **

And he doesn’t mean for his claws to come into play, as her words send a flurry of lightning flicker along the base of his spine, but by sheer **need** does his hand dig into her robe, clawing through the other end of it, with a ferocity that surprises even himself.

And she jumps with the sound of ripped fabric, but she doesn’t get far. For with his other hand does he quickly clasp the back of her neck and tug her towards him – up into his lips, where he kisses her with a fury – sharp, and hard, and passionate – with a nip of sharp teeth that **bruise** , until she’s gasping for air against his tongue, and he only, only lets her go when she feels her head about to spin.

But his hand reaches for her chin before she can catch her breath, forces her eyes up to his, and oh, by Nymeia’s grace –

She had never seen him look so _wild_ before.

“My love – “ She pants, on a stuttered whisper, as she feels her head start to spin with the heat of desire once more, the space between her legs beginning to throb in renewed **need** once again –

But oh, he runs her silent – with naught but a finger against her lip and a glint of his crimson, dangerous eyes.

Feral and wild and striking, it is all she can do not to whimper and _expire_ upon his leg right there. “As you wish, Jazzele – at your request.” He whispers, as his voice blows against soft skin in a way that makes her tremble. “I will deny myself the pleasure of your touch, the softness of your skin, the sweetness of your taste, for all of a **_single day._** ”

And his nose brushes against hers, an affectionate gesture so endlessly endearing to her heart, that it’s so easy to forget what she’d done – so, so easy to pretend she wasn’t feeling the flicker of something _darker_ upon the horizon, edging along the limits for them both – even when the aching **proof** of his affections lay upright and pulsing, heavy and hot between them –

Oh, for whatever she had inadvertently _wrought_ with this –

**She would gladly do again.**

“But I promise you this then, Jazzele –“ And her eyes slip idly open, from where in her daze had slipped _closed_ –

And his eyes capture hers like nothing else; bright scarlet rubies, fringed by a mess of cherry red locks; this gorgeous Allagan Princeling, so capable of dominating and conquering her warrior’s soul beneath his very touch –

She would enjoy _nothing more._

“That what I take from you tonight, will be beyond your wildest expectations. And I fully expect you to manage the consequences of _this_ – “ And he grasps her hand to brush it idly along his length, so she can feel the effect of what she’d done to him, so terribly early in the morning, when they’d barely even _started_ – “to the end. Where you will make up for it with your lips, and your tongue, and that gorgeous, dripping heat that lays between your thighs, **_do you understand_**?”

And her breath comes out in sharp, breathless gasps, as her eyes focus – narrowing in on only his eyes, his lips, his every spectacular _being_ –

And oh, does she _smile_.

“Perfectly~”

**_And so it begins._**


	2. i hope you feel how much i ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> runs my hands down my cheeks
> 
> this was supposed to be a one shot, i tell myself.  
> this was supposed to be fucking cute. 
> 
> and yet here we are.
> 
> \---  
> enjoy <3

The day had only just begun.

And already there was no saving him.

Such is the thought that crosses his mind as soon as they stumble from the Rising Stones. It’d been a flurry of activity as soon as the pair had parted ways in his quarters – with nothing but a kiss and a promise, and a very _clear_ understanding of the trials to come for them both.

There’d been barely any time left for breakfast when they’d finally made an appearance ( for which he could _completely_ blame Jazzele for, of course; although he was certainly having trouble maintaining any semblance of displeasure for her, when she’d reappeared looking like a _siren_ ), and if it wasn’t for Tataru shoving a piece of Archon loaf into both their hands as she bodily shoved them out the door, it was more than likely that they’d sooner have run the length and breadth of the entire Toll with nothing in their stomach to speak for, but the faint remnants of last night’s supper.

Although, considering the rather _distinct_ flavor of their current meal / punishment – perhaps he would prefer to have gone without breakfast at all, if just for today. 

It did seem as though he’d need the strength however, if the way Jazzele was looking at him was any indication otherwise. Between the low cut blouse she currently sported, the shortness of her skirt, and the alluring fairness of pale thighs tempting him to the scant space that lay just above her boots –

Ah yes, he just about _growled_ , as he chomped at a corner of bread and forced himself to swallow, if only to divert his attentions from his presently throbbing _length_ between his thighs.

Indeed, it was better to sate the hunger that he could fill, he concluded, rather than the one that he would need to _delay_.

But by the gods, of all the things she would come to make **hard** for him.

_( and somehow, he finds he doesn’t really mind )_

A resigned sigh leaves him at the thought, his absolute affection for the woman raring true despite it all; only to find his thoughts ever so gently interrupted, at the feel of something soft pressing tentatively against his lips.

And scarlet hues shoot wide at the same time his mouth opens in question, latching on to his warrior’s visage, at where she stands before him with a small pouch dangling in one hand, whilst the other extends a finger that’s pressed just barely, _barely_ against his lips. 

And it’s naught but a scant moment that passes between them, truth be told. Yet the sharp flare of tension that it brings is far too intense to _ignore_.

After a beat, he finally bites down on whatever it is that she’d slipped past his mouth, the scholar both curious and cautious in equal measure – only to groan lowly in satisfaction at the burst of sweetness that immediately spreads across his tongue; a delectable flavor, a rather pleasant delight. One that caters to his immediate _enjoyment_.

Most especially once he captures her subsequent _reaction_ to it.

And he has the absolute _pleasure_ of catching the way her breath stutters in response, a vibrant flush rising upon fair cheeks as his tongue shifts to lave across his lower lip – all of this mere moments before Jazzele manages to look away, although not before he’d caught the sheer notes of desire that’d spread _alight_ in her exquisitely blue eyes. 

His nose flares in response, as for a brief moment does he have to consciously remind himself as to the very concept of _restraint_.

Oh, how she tested his very _patience_.

“…fruit?” He hazards a guess after a moment, as the familiar taste of a rolanberry registers in his head.

The way she peeks shyly back at him is almost too much.

“I figured you might like it with the bread – take some of the bitterness off the edge, perhaps.” And a smile lingers along her lips, amusement laced clear upon her tongue. “I got them while you were distracted.”

Distracted?

Ah, so she _knew_.

_The little minx._

And his grin turns positively **wolfish** in response, as even as his chest alights in pure, unequal warmth, it does not at all diminish the utterly immense fervor of his _attraction_ to her.

_( truly, how he doubted that anything on this shard ever actually would )_

“I thought you said no touching, though, my love. Does feeding me a berry or two not constitute that?” He can’t help but bring himself to ask, as the slight tension eases from her shoulders with a laugh, already placing the small pouch squarely into his grasp – keeping delicate fingertips distinctively away from his own, in accompaniment of an answer.

“If you’ll notice, Raha, I didn’t _actually_ touch you. The berry did, nothing more.” She intones casually, even as she places the very same digit that’d been against his lips right between her own; a slight nip, the briefest flicker of tongue, just enticing enough to make his length _throb_.

“So long as we go along with that mindset,” She continues, as she resumes their trek back along the path to the House, “I don’t think we’d be breaking any of the rules we’d set, in the long run.” Not that there had been many, besides the main point of course, which was –

_No touching. No tasting._

_Denial and restraint._

Which was a large thing to ask for them both, to be fair. For ever since they’d confessed, they’d simultaneously found that it was both a blessing and a curse – as the ever raging _need_ that coursed through them before this had finally found an outlet – and it lay only within the constant pleasures of each other’s touch. Whether it be a pinky or a kiss, or her nails raking their way across the freckled plains of his skin – since they’d discovered their mutual desire for each other, every sensation shared had always been both too much, and always not quite enough.

Sometimes it was all he could take _not_ to touch her.

And now she was asking of them both the impossible. 

Still, in accordance with her wishes, he’d supposed that in the end, she’d had a point.

Then that **did** open the doors to quite a few possibilities for him, no?

Hmm.

He could work with that.

“A fair enough rationale.” He agrees, with all the pomp of a pleased peacock. “I thank you for clarifying that then, Jazzele. And for the berries as well.” G’raha grins, as he pops a couple more into his mouth – a most pleasant contrast indeed, against the unfortunate taste of the loaf that still lingered. “They may not taste as sweet as you, but they’ll be a fine substitute until the evening.”

And even considering the fact that she’d been the one that prompted all this, it is absolute _gratification_ on his part to see the light flourish of her blush, as she opens the door to Rowena’s for him with a laugh.

“Wanting to kiss me already then?” She quips, her back against the door as he passes by.

Yet his answering smile is all the more _ravenous_. “It is not your lips I refer to, my love.”

And he has the absolute guttural delight of watching her skin flash a bright vivid _rose_ at that – a sudden flare traversing from the curve of her cheeks, spreading along the swell of her chest and beyond, in a way that made something _primal_ rise up within him to see it.

Ah, Jazzele. What she did to him so.

_She was too precious._

* * *

Jazzele was feeling literally anything _but_ precious at the moment.

Tense? Mildly. Conflicted? Undoubtedly. The fact that she was slowly _withering_ beneath Rowena’s watchful gaze to boot?

Oh, Twelve help her.

If this wasn’t both the highlight of her day, and also the absolute _worst_ of it.

Caught in the middle of it, she was – between watching G’raha out of the corner of her eyes, as he’d stripped of his layers in the midst of their work; sapphire hues lingering over the taut strength of his arms, the breadth of his back, and the more then _distracting_ trickles of sweat slipping down the slope of his neck – combined with working in such close quarters with him like this, where the heat and musk of his scent made something _visceral_ within her rise, she’d swear she could just about **combust** at this literal point in time and the Hyuran woman wouldn’t dare bat an eye.

In fact, she’d probably charge money over the sheer _spectacle_ of it. 

_‘Oh, she’d certainly appreciate that, wouldn’t she?’_

**_Without a damn bloody doubt._ **

And the errant thought is naught but a stray flicker in her mind at that, yet the sound of sharp clapping cuts through the room with the keenness of a blade.

“ _Focus_ , Warrior of Light! Contrary to whatever concept of time you may have for me and my girls, I feel the need to remind you that some of us do _actually_ keep to a schedule. One that you and yours happen to be trampling over repeatedly, by the way!”

Oh, there it was.

“My sincerest apologies, Rowena.” Jazzele chimes out in mild shame as she shakes her head, only to resume her work in earnest. “We don’t mean to delay. There’s just a bit much to go through here, and while Tataru did wish to reconfirm the quantities before we left, it’s not exactly…” She trails off, as she lifts off the lid of another crate, only to balk at the contents within. “Our usual acquisition, I don’t think?”

No indeed, for instead of the usual purchase of produce, cloth, and crystals made in order to the Rising Stones, only now did the Viera find herself looking at – spare trinkets, metallic parts, canisters filled with a luminous blue substance of which she was quickly coming to understand was _oil_ –

Was Tataru building another airship for them, then?

An irritated huff sweeps its way from the brunette’s lips, and for a sharp moment, Jazzele – despite having _countless_ experience with killing primals, rabid Garlean’s and the odd, ancient Ascian – can feel herself genuinely poised to _panic_. 

She doesn’t let her get a word out.

“Although it’s no matter, of course!” She chirps up, as she gathers the crate against her chest, in swift motion to deposit it closer to the door, “I’m certain Tataru would have more light to share on all this then – _ah_ – !”

A slight stumble, as her foot catches on yet another crate blocking her way – and she’s prepared to fall, really – bruised knees meaning next to nothing in her current profession –

But oh, if the arm that latches around her waist doesn’t make her very knees **_weak_**.

“Careful now, Jazzele.” He whispers lowly against her neck, the heat of his breath sending frissons of electricity racing down the length of her spine. “Take your time. There’s no need to break a leg over this.”

No need to break one indeed, yet despite his words can she not help but feel said legs _stagger_ , as her focus narrowed in on only his touch; to the barest heat of his digits pressed against the folds of her blouse, where the fabric had rucked up mere inches from the heated plains of her flesh…

Wait – _heated_? Really? That was odd.

Was she actually burning?

She doesn’t respond to him right away, and perhaps that is what prompts the hand that idly presses against her brow – a gentle and careful touch, clinical in all the ways that mattered – and yet the effect on her is near instantaneous.

A shuddered whimper, a soft, needy whine. One that would thoroughly embarrass her otherwise, and yet could not help that it fall from her lips.

Ah – she shuddered, as she tried to catch her bearings – perhaps she really was more affected by all this then she’d thought.

“You’re burning up.” G’raha intones, with a steadiness of which Jazzele could only just barely clutch onto. “There’s too much heat in this room, you should take a step outside – “

“It’s not much better out there, I’ll tell you that now.” Rowena exhales unhelpfully, as she peers at the two with a frown layered heavy upon her lips. “Mor Dhona’s weather isn’t exactly at its peak today, if you hadn’t noticed.”

There was truth in that as well. With the weather humid and the aetherical current of the corrupted crystals making the pressure rise within nearly every corner of the Toll, it’d been much harder then usual to navigate through the landscape without feeling a general measure of strain.

Jazzele herself had been back and forth to the Rising Stones for quite a few bells now, whilst G’raha had been made to stay behind to reconfirm the veracity of the actual merchandise. And while it was easier for him to make sense of the bits and bobs, she’d presumed that it was more then enough if she were to at least be the main courier in this instance.

Perhaps she’d overestimated herself a bit.

“Rowena, might we trouble you for some refreshments?” A request intoned in a manner that would brook no argument. “Jazzele should take a moment to rest, at the very least before we continue. I’d prefer she not collapse over the goods; it would ease our efforts along no further.”

A low tsk resounds from the proprietress’s lips at the appeal, before finally shaking her head with a shrug, already heading out the door with naught but a carefree wave of her hand. “Fine, I’ll be back with some water. Do try to keep her awake now, I’d rather not have to call in a healer over a _heat stroke_ of all things.”

And Jazzele resists the urge to pipe up that she was in fact in the company of _two_ healer’s already, and thus her grievances were automatically moot – in favor instead of focusing on G’raha’s faint chuckle as he guided her to sit on a stray crate yet unopened, ensuring he had settled her down comfortably, before the hand pressed idly against her brow soon ran cooler with the faint semblance of _frost_.

Ah, goodness. He really was an all-rounder.

_( that felt nice )_

And a soft moan escapes her in appreciation, the flutter of her eyes at the gradual return of her senses, the faint restoration of lucidity; and she knows it’s not often that she has to inch her neck upwards to see G’raha’s face, really, so used to being on the taller end of the spectrum – yet she finds she doesn’t mind at all, most especially when it comes to him.

It made her feel closer to him somehow, in some way. Like he was the one taking care of her, shielding her from the world, rather then the other way around.

_That felt. Really nice too._

“Hello.” She finally whispers after a moment, as leporine ears twitched idly atop her head in greeting.

“Hello.” He returns, soft smile curving at his own lips. “How are you feeling?”

The flicker of her eyes once again as she sighs, leaning her head ever further into his touch. She does not go beyond that however, still mildly conscious of their prior understanding. “Better. A bit better. I hadn’t realized how weary I’d been until that moment, I apologize.”

And she _feels_ more than sees his head shake, a thumb coming to idly brush against the long line of her brow – an earnest effort it would seem, to grant her even a more modicum semblance of relief.

It must work, as eventually does the whisper of tension in her shoulders gradually ease.

“You need not apologize for that, Jazzele.” He murmurs to her in soft, understanding tones, the sound of his voice washing over her in waves of cool comfort. “It’s been a long day, and we’ve been at this for quite a few bells now, and for all the benefits that Archon bread might have on the brunt of our facilities, it does not quite make up for everything.”

A flicker of a smile on her lips, as she idly registers the amusement laced within his own. “I should know. There was a reason we’d went to such lengths to have food snuck into the Studium, after all.”

“I can believe that.” She responds after a beat passes, opening her eyes once again – to latch onto crimson shaded hues that beamed at her with the light of pure warmth, the faint pressure within her chest loosening at the sight. “The twins have told me quite enough, but I’d love to hear more. If you wouldn’t mind telling me one of these days?”

“One day.” He promises, as his hand finally retreats from her head, taking the articulateness of her words as proof that the faint moment of weakness had passed. “I’ll tell you all the stories you like, my love, provided you are awake enough to hear them.”

And a soft embarrassed laugh leaves her at his words, a nod of agreement in turn, before after a short moment do her eyes flicker towards his hand in quiet consideration. “Speaking of awake – while I do intend to be utterly conscious for what is to occur later this evening, I hate to ask – but I don’t suppose that this counts against our challenge, does it?”

His scarlet hues glimmer in amusement at her, an idle shrug of his shoulders in answer. “Unfortunately, love – I’d have to say it quite likely does. Granted that it was clinical of course, and could not be avoided, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice your _earlier_ reaction to it.” And the glint of desire that flourishes in his eyes is far too _bright_ to ignore, even against her shame. “And I would remind you of your promise for later this evening, Jazzele. I do hope you don’t forget it.”

And she blushes like a rose once again at his words, flickering her eyes away, even as the reminder of their accord makes something ill within her _bluster_ in response.

Ah - well now was a good time as any. 

“Actually – “ She begins, as she is reminded of another matter entirely, as G’raha turns away to continue poking away at a crate. “With regards to that particular topic, I wanted to apologize.” And she cuts him off ahead of time, as he turns to stare at her once again with a _look_.

“Again, I know, I know – I’m sorry, G'raha. But this one – I just – “ She fumbles for her words, trying to find a way to just _speak_. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me back then, when we were in bed together – why I didn’t just **say** it, just tell you what I _wanted_ – rather then leaving you point blank like that… after everything you’ve done for me, it was just so _fucking_ – “

Odd. Rude. Above all – **_cruel_**.

And she has no answer for it yet, and she has no excuse. And perhaps he recognizes she’s at a loss for words, babbling herself into a circle, that he takes control after only a moment of silence; quieting her when his hand reaches out to perch gently beneath her jaw – tilting her face upwards to face him, to stare into his eyes as he stares back, the idle sweep of his thumb against her skin leaving her effectively silent. 

“Stop.” He demands, as he stares her squarely in the eyes, allowing her no quarter. “Stop apologizing. Stop thinking about it. Stop feeling bad about it – _please_.” And the plea on his lips is hushed, quiet, utterly imploring for her to _listen_ , and it makes something in her heart _wither_ to hear it.

_Gods, whatever he was about to say – she already knew –_

**_She did not deserve him._ **

“I understand you feel terrible,” he starts, “and I won’t tell you that what you did didn’t hurt. Because for one second you were there, and then on the next, it felt like you couldn’t get _away_ fast enough. For a moment there, I thought – “ And his grasp tightens on her chin, as a flicker of fear seems to shift through his eyes. “I really, truly felt you would _leave_ , and by the Twelve – I wasn’t prepared. I was not prepared to _lose_ you. Not so soon… **_not again_**.”

And her eyes shimmer with wild regret, as her lips run poised to open – yet he shushes her with a finger against her mouth, a thumb against her lips – and she lets him take the reign - if only for a moment; settling into silence once more, allowing him free range to just bloody fucking _speak_.

( she owed him that much, after all – yet she also owed him far, _far_ more )

And his voice is tempered, and strong, and implacable as ever. As stern as the Exarch’s once was, when he would tell her something that she was far too stubborn to _want_ to hear.

As stern as G’raha Tia’s own even… when he would pin her down against the bed, with his thighs between her legs and his lips against her neck, telling her all the things she’d positively **ached** to hear.

Oh. Oh dear, she whimpers, as she feels the gatherings of _heat_ between her thighs start to _flourish_.

_Shite. Of all the gods damned **fucking** times --- _

**_Why was she like this?_ **

“But I will tell you this now, Jazz – and I will tell you this only once.” He murmurs, the timbre of his voice sending frissons of _desire_ to coax through her like a drug. “Know this – that no matter how far you go, or however much you might leave me wanting, waiting, _craving_ for you, day in and day out, without a word or a _promise_ of gratification otherwise – I tell you this now, _I would not mind_.“ He whispers, ever so softly and ever so dearly, that it resonates against her heart like a _prayer_.

“Because to have you at all for _any_ amount of time – for any amount of _anything_ – means far more to me than anything else on this shard. So please… for my sake, I do beg of you, do not apologize.” A faint smile curving along his lips, a thin measure of sadness at even the _slightest_ possibility that she might ever choose differently…

Self-sacrificial he is to a fault, indeed; never regretful, if ever it came to **_her_**. “I would wait for you,” he continues, “I would take you back without gripe each and every time, so long as you return to me – that is all I ask.”

And Jazzele feels her heart swell with an emotion so rampant, so fierce, so **_full_** – that it is all she can do not to _cry_.

How _deeply_ could this man love her so? With so much fervor, and so much _depth_ , that her heart could not bear the thought to ever be without him at all?

How could she even **think** of leaving him, of _hurting_ him, _ever_?

_Beyond anything in her life – beyond all of those that she’d killed, all that she’d destroyed, all that she’d ruined – by her hands and hers alone, she knew… she knew that **this** would be her most unforgivable sin. _

_She would **never** dare to do it again. _

“G'raha, my love..." She whimpers, as her pulse rate quickens in her chest. "I adore you.” She proclaims suddenly; desperately, _fervently_ – her heart _squeezing_ as she speaks, leaning forward in her declaration, as though she cannot _possibly_ get the words out fast enough.

The swell of her lips brush against his finger, and she knows the touch is fleeting – faint and imperceptible, yet it is nearly enough to make her _swoon,_ so desperate as she is for his touch; for his love, that it quivers within her very being with a **vengeance** –

She cannot _bear_ to ever have him _think_ otherwise again. “I adore you and I love you, with all my heart, and soul, and the entirety of my very being – between this shard and the last, I _promise_ you – “ A broken gasp, as he rushes forward in motion to brush his nose against her own – a familiar gesture of comfort, of affection, and yet mere inches away from her does he stop – just barely; so close and yet so far, that she can just faintly taste his lips, can faintly feel his _warmth_ – and yet the lack of any conclusive physical contact just **shatters** her ever more.

“I know, my love.” He whispers back, as his words blow softly her skin in answer. “I know – you do not need to explain. I promise you – I know.”

And she melts into a whimper, even as he pulls away from her after a long moment, his fingers falling from her lips; already missing that scant note of affection, that gentle easy touch – and yet does he not dare to leave her completely, as his hands come to settle on the crate on either side of her hips, his form bending low towards her, against her – a simmer of vivid heat starting to _blossom_ within his eyes --

Gods, to be this _close_ to her – after only a few bells without her warmth –

It was maddening. _She_ was maddening. Impossibly so.

Twelve, the things he would **do** for this woman.

Just a taste. Just a touch. _And he could not get enough._

“I miss you.” She whispers, a soft sound against his lips, naught but a delicate brush of air – so ethereal and sweet and deliriously exquisite, that he felt the rampant urge to _take_ her, _ravage_ her, to _**steal her away** **for the week**_ return. “You’re so close to me and yet so far, and I miss you so.”

Oh, how the statement makes him _snarl_. “Need I remind you whose _idea_ this was?” He has to ask, as he so much as refuses to leave her side. “To tempt the two of us so, so as we might take each other – fully and without quarter, until we are embedded in each other’s very **essence**? Was that not your intention, my love? Was that not your desire?”

And her breath hitches against his own in ardent plea, as nails scramble for purchase in the fabric between her legs, spreading her thighs wide open, as she rocks against the heel of her hand in torrid _desperation_ –

“It is – it was mine; it still is and it hasn’t changed, and yet – Raha, _my word_ – the **ache** I feel for you – “

And her whispers speak to him in spirals of carnal desire – as a groan leaves his lips, hands itching to press themselves against the lines of her hips, to hitch her legs around his waist, and make her **feel** every _throbbing_ inch of him; every part that _longed_ for her, that _begged_ for her, that would _wither_ without even the faintest _sweetness_ of her touch…

“By the gods, Jazzele – “ He hisses against her lips, as he finally slots himself between her thighs, but only just - as the urge to **rut** against her grows nigh _overwhelming_ – “The things you do to me, my love, how I _wish_ you could feel them.”

And she manages a sharp whine at his words, her hips shifting faster, harder, mewling in need – “Please, please, tell me – your voice, I want to hear – “

He growls low in his throat, a short _guttural_ thing, and it is all he can do to not lunge at her in sheer unquenching _desire_. “You would have me tell you? How incredibly, impossibly _hard_ you make me? How you tempt me with your very presence and your very breath and how your skin _enrages_ me, for the things I wish to do between your thighs until you are a **mess** upon my tongue and my cock – “ His voice is a hiss of mere words, as her lashes flutter in coiling _need_ \-- “I do not even need to _touch_ you for you to make me _want_ you so, my love – my heart, my **_soul_** – “

And he burns and he yearns, and he recognizes the way her voice starts to _hitch_ – knows when she is close, knows that he would want nothing more then to relish in the sight, in the taste, in the feel of her falling apart beneath his touch –

And the lust drunk glaze in her eyes is almost too much for him to take, and he very nearly _spends_ himself on the spot.

But G’raha Tia knows restraint – has had it, practiced it – for far too long in the First; when he was lonely, and weary, and only had the most fragmented memories of her to speak of. For far too long after even, when she’d finally arrived, when he’d watched her from afar and she’d been everything he’d remembered and _more_ –

He knows restraint. He knows desire. Like the back of his spoken hand.

But Jazzele wished to be taken with a _fury_.

He would provide that.

**_He had promised._ **

“Come for me, my love. Show me that which you crave, and I would sooner sate my thirst upon your very essence and die upon your lips a happy man.”

And perhaps there is something in his words that coaxes her over the edge, something that makes that winding coil in her _snap_. She comes against her hand with a shuddered cry, a broken gasp, the keening whine of his name on her lips –

_And oh, by the bloody Twelve –_

He can smell her. In that swift moment upon completion does he realize ( _Azeyma, save him_ ) he can **_smell_** her.

Her musk, her essence – so titillating and exotic, so effulgent in its aroma, that he _swore_ he could almost **taste** it –

“Jazzele.” He growls, her name nigh unintelligible on his tongue. And she is still writhing in her perch upon the crate, her thighs still clenching around her hand, as her breath comes in shuddered gasps; and it is all he can do not to **slake** himself upon her lips.

When her eyes finally open, it is to the sight of blazing, burning, crimson hues – his eyes razing her with the passion of a thousand suns, with the uncaged _fervor_ of a ravenous **wolf**.

And even though she _knows_ she’s just come apart – having spent herself against the heel of her hand, her essence smeared against her pantalettes, as the heat of her core contracted around empty air, still in the lingering throes of shuddering and desperate need – 

Gods help her. 

_How could she still **want** so much more?_

“Raha – “ she breathes, already _aching_ , _quivering, pining_ for his touch -- _she isn't even sure of what she asks for anymore_. “I – I can’t – _please_ – “

“ ** _Please_** – tell me you two are finished.”

And the sharp disruption of the unknown voice is enough to make the pair _flinch_ – Jazzele throwing herself back against the crate, with her knees locked hard around her hands in still shuddering shame; G’raha who steps away – his crimson orbs still burning, furious – even as they lock onto the figure standing still in the middle of the now open-door frame.

Rowena – bless her money-grubbing soul – looks very much like she’s tired, exhausted, would really rather be anywhere _but_ there; yet the sternness in her eyes speaks volumes. And even against G’raha’s scorching Allagan eyes, does she dare not manage a flinch.

In the saner portion of his mind, one that hasn’t been strained _raw_ with the sheer facets of tension tethering him through the overwhelming want and desire and _need_ – he has to admit he feels a dull measure of respect for that.

But he has not the capacity to perceive it further.

Instead does he have to constrain himself, with deep even breaths as he forces a glance away from the women both, the staggering throb of his cock absolutely **_agonizing_ **at where it pulsates between his thighs – yearning, begging, to slot itself against the exquisite heat between her hips…

Twelve forfend, _he didn’t know how much of this he could actually take._

“Clean up – get all your merchandise and go.” Rowena finally asserts, placing a glass of water upon another crate nearby, before just about turning to leave – with the door spread wide, wide open. “I won’t question what you did, I’ll just be handing in an extra ‘convenience’ fee with your little secretary. If she does not pay, I don’t think I need to tell you what I’ll do.”

And the glint of her eyes, as her nose wrinkles in disdain, as thought she can smell something utterly _distinct_ –

Oh gods.

Jazzele would never be able to look her in face again.

And for that matter – she’d mused – as her attention diverted as Rowena finally stalked away, muttering something about ‘horny brats’ and ‘bawdy brothels’ –

She wasn’t sure she could ever look at G’raha the same way again either.

“Raha…?” She manages a whisper, her voice husky and hoarse, as she’d attempted to gather her wits against the accompaniment of her beating, flittering, **quivering** heart –

_Oh Nymeia,_

she cannot help but pray, as she catches his eyes for but a moment – aquamarine hues locking against brilliant, vibrant rubies – of a most startlingly, shocking **_red_** –

_Forgive her this lust._

and as his eyes rake over her slender frame, narrowing on the swell of her lips, on the heaving of her chest, on the space of burning heat still trembling between her thighs, for which she can just barely hear him _snarl_ –

_For she would sate his thirst no less_

_Even if she were to fall apart in his arms._


	3. i hope you know that what i feel for you, is more then i can take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they repress too much, and ask for too little. 
> 
> remind them again what makes ones restraint ever so brittle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i asked my friends if i should put the good stuff in this chapter. they both said to make everyone suffer. :) 
> 
> please direct all potential complaints to them, thank u.

It is entirely too difficult to explain what happens after they leave the premises of the House later that day.

In raw silence and in shame, do they pick their way from the establishment without another word exchanged – Jazzele straightening the ruffled folds of her skirt, G’raha adjusting the constricted front of his breeches – as on unsteady legs do they finally grab the last of their haul, and out into the open air do the pair escape; away from Rowena’s prying eyes, away from the unmistakable scent of _lust_ that chases at them from deep within.

And it’s a heady, intoxicating feeling that follows, as it should – in the faint remnants of warmth that quivers damply between her thighs, in the arduous ache that echoes between G’raha’s shuddering loins. Try as they might to flee from it however, it would not matter.

For it is not so easily denied. 

And Jazzele is naught but a newborn fawn standing on two trembling legs, as they find their way back to the Rising Stones, intensely aware of the wetness that lingers against her smalls, of the essence that smears against fair skin as the ends of her skirt brush far too sharply along the top of her thighs to be entirely _comfortable_ –

She’s not sure if she imagines the growl that emanates from the man that follows closely behind her, but as her hair stands on end in response, she finds she’s far too much of a coward at the moment to properly check.

Gods help her, she begs – as her heart beats a pulsating rhythm that leaves her feeling nearly faint.

Gods, help her, please.

_Let them both get through this in one piece._

A helpless plea, as they finally slip into the Stones and deposits the last of the stash at Tataru’s feet, just barely managing the barrage of exasperation that flings itself from her lips, as the bill – delivered mere moments before them – taunts the pair in accompanying disgrace. They subject themselves to her without a word, as she huffs and puffs and stomps her tiny feet in rage, promising retribution on the two, once she figured out what all this ‘convenience’ hog wash was all about – before after a long terse moment does even the Scion’s secretary comes to recognize that something between the two is currently wrong. Dreadfully, evidently, _seriously_ wrong.

The mere fact that they could barely even _look_ at each other was sending an alarum ringing off in her head.

And Jazzele’s not quite sure what it is that she gathers from their stoic faces necessarily, but she doesn’t even have the chance to ask – as once again does she find herself being bodily shoved out the door, with a demand not to return until they’d figured their _bloody_ shit out.

Not necessarily the words that Jazzele would have used to describe the current conundrum they were in – and yet.

Looking upon G’raha in the midafternoon light, when her heart both yearns and burns for him in equal halves – she couldn’t help but think that perhaps she was right.

Maybe they weren’t cut out for this kind of thing – just yet.

“Well.” He begins, when it seems clear she was not quite capable enough to speak for them both. “I believe some lunch is in order, after all that work. Suppose the markets might have something for us to grab – shall we?” He asks her, in low husky timbers, his voice polite yet his eyes staring intensely from beneath a darkly hooded gaze, as Jazzele for her part can only shudder as her body decides to _attune_ to that; whispers of electricity coursing its way down her spine and gathering in her core, even as she does not miss the way his eyes _flicker_ to the space that trembles between her thighs. 

Gods. Twelve. Please.

Please, please, please –

 _Save her_ from whatever this was that she’d created.

Because she didn’t know how she much more she could survive it.

And she forces a smile at him, forces a nod, tries her best to remain standing firm and steady – against any and all doubt, the picture-perfect form of calm. “We shall.”

~~If only it was even remotely true.~~

Yet if this was to be her death sentence, she would go down screaming.

* * *

And it’s hard for him to put into words how he feels about all this anymore.

All this, he says – when in reality, he’s quite certain he hasn’t even got the faintest grasp of it. Not a bit. Not at all. And yet he would digress.

He’d had fantasies of _something_ like this, of course, in the faintest moments over the years, when he’d had the luxury of solitude and peace – the time to have lingered over his deepest thoughts, dreams, desires – of exploring the world together with her, of exploring his warrior and her life in full; in a vision where his affections had been returned, and they were side by side, and not at all apart – and she would smile, and tease, and lure him to her with all the grace and warmth that his fragile heart could bear, and in the end when it would be too much, she would kiss him, ease him from his doubts, his strains, his heartache… with naught but a single, most deliberately loving touch.

Nothing more.

…he would ask for nothing more. 

And yet he would wake with his spend having graced the length of his spoken hand, his body shuddering, jerking, _writhing_ in debilitating need – as he’d gasped her name with shuddered breaths, a desperately, begging plea. 

For he would wake. And it would make his heart break, for in his waking hours – he was alone. And despite already being endlessly used to the situation – time and time again subjecting himself to the whimsical pleas of his still faithful heart - it felt ever more, each and every time, as though it could no longer _bear it._

So he’d hidden that dream away – like he’d hidden many, many things over the years – and only prayed to any gods still listening, that he would survive it.

Fast forward to today, to right now at this very moment, and it felt _almost_ – yet not quite – the same.

And it’s hard _not_ to look at her, at the same time that it is. He finds his eyes flittering constantly to her eyes, to her lips, to the delicate swell of her breasts – to her neck, to her legs, and back to her lips again. It is all he can do to _not_ yearn for her, and all he can do to hold himself _back_.

It was an utterly jarring sensation to have, he dimly realized – to have this odd compulsion; the desire to taste her, feel her, breathe her in once again - when once upon a time he had gone _years_ without a single whisper of her, only to find he could suddenly no longer stand even a bell apart. 

And he understands that that had been the intention, when she’d taken him on his cock and left him hanging off the edge earlier that morning, but that had been then, and this was now, and he had not realized how _sharply_ he could burn for her. After centuries apart, and after only mere moons together. It was both too much, and yet not enough.

_And yet how deeply did he not wish it to **end**. _

It is beyond him why he cannot _help_ but allow her to tempt him so. To intoxicate himself on her aroma, on the musk that emanates from between her thighs, on the swish of fabric that shifts across her svelte frame as she walks – tempting him in its grace, in its elegance, the urge to slip his hands against the curves hidden beneath the dark fabric very nearly making his head _swim_.

Oh, how she played him like one of her harps.

And how he _relished_ in it all the same.

He would willingly follow her through the sopping chaos of the Aurum Vale, and he would suffer in it all gladly, so long as he could guarantee that he was with her.

And it’s a thought that makes his heart swell, and in conjunction his length, as a sharp throb surges along his loins, making him wince in pain as the sensation mounts, the trickles of lust for her returning to the forefront –

And he cannot control the growl that slips its way from his lips, as scarlet hues catch the glances that wandering strangers give her – the initial curiosity, that turns into clear interest, as foreign eyes drift over the length of her frame, over full curves and long legs and fair soft skin. He does not miss the stares, the looks, the appreciative smirks, that Jazzele – so wound up in her own self-made ruin – does not currently manage to see.

He has the convenience of getting front row seats, as he watches at least two other Miqo’te attempt to make their move; one already moving in for the prowl, his verdant green hues intent on his quarry, ready to put on a show – and by the bloody Twelve does it make something primal within him _snarl_.

Loudly – and within hearing range of anyone within five malms, it feels like, as his show of teeth against the Seeker suddenly stops him sharply in his tracks – the males eyes trained on the others intimidating visage, as a flush of outrage bubbled up within G'raha, at the sheer gall that this man had – that he could even _think_ of taking her from him.

He would not have it. He would _never_ allow it.

_He would not survive her loss._

And it’s against that sharpened focus that he’s drawn from his fury by a gentle tug against his scarf – his eyes flittering over to wide, vibrant blue – the light within both curious and concerned, but still faint with the flittering haze of drowsy, unending _affection_ –

“Raha?” She questions him, so softly and so sweetly that his ears cant forward just to _hear_ it. “What’s wrong?”

And oh, but does he have to resist the urge to _laugh_ at that.

What’s wrong indeed, he can’t help but mulishly _snarl_ , as he flits his eyes away from hers just to glare – daggers and comets and all else dangerous, pointy things – at any who so much as dared to look at them; catching the gaze of many a wary stranger, before ever so swiftly do they finally look away – as any man with any measure of self-preservation skills was capable enough to see the line of which would _not_ be crossed.

And it is his desire that _rallies_ at him from deep within now, as his hands itch to fit themselves against her hips and lug her over his shoulders, away and afar from lecherous prying eyes, to where only he could look at her, only he could smell her – as he unfurled her beneath his tongue, breathing in her sex until she was dripping, soaking mess…

Azeyma, help him.

_What was wrong indeed?_

“What is wrong? What is wrong, my love –“ He begins harshly, as he attempts to keep every semblance of his self-control from breaking. “Is that we are currently standing in the middle of a market searching for food, when I am in fact starved for something else, harder than a brick and throbbing with tempestuous need, whilst anyone whose anyone can likely smell your dripping _heat_ from ten malms away.”

And it is utterly beyond him to be quite so crass, as he watches the way Jazzele startles in surprise. But he cannot find it in himself to be ashamed, as he has the pleasure of watching the woman fluster a sweet rose pink at that, her nails tightening into the folds of his scarf, as she presses her thighs together in shame…

Oh, he would not have that.

And he immediately nudges a foot between her boots in silent demand, once again forcing them to part, slipping his leg between until she’d stood with her thighs once again just faintly separate before him – until he could once again smell the delightful musk that issued forth from beneath her skirt.

As he’d said, this was torture.

_But he would have it all the same._

“Do not hide yourself from me. If I am unable to so much as _taste_ you, then I would drown myself in your aroma until I am drunk on the very essence of it.” He whispers, his eyes vivid and blazing, his desires clear on his tongue.

And oh, if her eyes do not _darken_ in answer to that.

How this woman makes him **burn**.

“Is that right?” She intones softly after a moment, voice delicate in its tonality, with an edge of which makes his passion _rise_. “Do you not think this might be too much for you, then? That we should likely end this here, before you get any more…” She trails off, a flicker of tongue against her lips, before the word that lingers falls heavy with clear intent. “Aroused?”

How sharply the words make him _snap_.

“No.” He growls, as the fevered pitch of his lust sweeps him into a tidal wave of desire. “No, we will not. Because I had promised you a reckoning of untold proportions, Jazzele. A combustion of repressed need prompted by a desire and passion of which you have never known. Those were my intentions, and your desires, and I fully intend to _keep to them_.”

He turns away only to place his glare upon the remaining half of the population once again, his voice hushing into a whisper as his tail flickers in agitation just behind. “I just find it passing difficult to follow through, when the aroma of you is quite so exquisite. When I know how much you must be dripping into your smalls, to have been clenching your legs together so.”

And knowing eyes capture her own as he smirks, the flush darkening on her cheeks to something redder, more crimson, more _delicious_ , as she stiffens in terse response.

The swirls of hunger begin to flourish in her eyes once again, and he cannot help but _delight_ in the sheer swell of it.

He would test her – as much as she did him. _He would assure it._

“Am I wrong?” He dares to ask, his eyes so much as refusing to leave hers.

It takes naught but a faint moment for her to respond. “…no.” She concedes, as her own voice lowers in time; a hushed secret, to be whispered into his being, a confession meant for him and him alone. “I’ll admit it’s… not exactly a secret. After that moment in the room earlier, I’m…” She stutters, hesitates, as he can just faintly see how her breath begins to quicken. “Raha, I’m – honestly fair _dripping_ quite a bit, truthfully. Which makes the skirt quite unbearable at the moment, as you can imagine.”

And she shifts her legs as though to better get that point across, the swish and sway of fabric laying visions upon his mind, of which he doesn’t necessarily _need_ the reminder of, thank you very much.

Still – he fairly enjoys it all the same.

“Are you to tell you didn’t think that through, when you were deciding on your wardrobe choice earlier?”

And it is mere jest on his tongue, yet there is a flicker of amusement, of genuine embarrassment at that as she turns her head away, so that he might only see the way her fair skin brightens in response to his words –

( gods, she was so endlessly enchanting, really – even like this, it was absolutely incomprehensible indeed )

“I did not --- not perhaps think it would get this bad.” She admits, her voice still edging on a breathless whisper. “You know me, I do not usually care for lengths of clothes or the like, we Viera do not usually have this problem, and yet – “ And it’s with rapidly rising heat that he recognizes the way her breath starts to hitch, the way her hand begins to clench against her skirt, rising it ever so minutely; so that he might see even just an ilm more of her skin, along with the corresponding glimmer of dampness so –

“I am _quivering_ , Raha. I feel faint. I miss the feel of your length within me so, and my body cannot help but _whimper_ with the loss of it.”

And she whispers it so desperately, so urgently, that he can feel his frayed edges already beginning to _crack_. He but growls in response, only to take naught but a short step closer, relishing in the words that filled his ears – hands itching with the urge to take her hips and fill her _full_.

“Are you then? That desperate for it? Tell me, would you at be adverse, my love, if I were to take you in these markets, in full view of all these men? In view of their wandering eyes and their indecent thoughts, so that I might put an end to their misplaced imaginings so?”

And he can see the way her eyes flutter closed in lust, lips shuddering, svelte frame shaking; taking faint gulps of air, as his very words seem to steal them all from her mind. “I would let you. You know I would, you don’t even have to _ask_.”

And so impossibly does the confession make his lust rise, as his eyes burn and his length thunders with wanton need, rising himself to breathe upon her lips, uncaring of those that passed around them; watching them with eyes wide open and only scarcely _imagining_ the illicit words on their lips.

But let them look then. Let them see. How the Warrior of Light – his lover, his inspiration, his ever living heart – centered unto him alone. How her breath quickened, and her legs shook, how her very being trembled in _plea_ for his touch.

Let them see – how utterly and completely she responded to him so.

“You would let me, Jazzele?” he asks again, as the heat within him expands, inundating his senses, clouding his thoughts and his judgment. “Take you against the wall, as I split you upon my cock, have them watch me fill you to the brink with release?”

And her breath quickens with desire, as she spirals further into oblivion, clutching his scarf like a lifeline, tugging him closer, of which he follows gladly, just so that he might finally, _finally_ get even the most fleeting, briefest brush of her lips –

“ _Please_. Please, please, please, Raha – _I would_. So long as it’s you, so long as I could feel you in me, taking me, claiming me for your own, I beg – Raha, **_please_**.”

And he can feel himself starting to unfurl, the tensions within finding him fit to snap, as he’d edged closer, his lips just barely brushing against her own; knowing and understanding that at this point in time he was beyond any and all godsdamned hope, and _wicked **fucking** white_, _please_ –

_Let him **have** – _

“HELP! Please help!”

A loud screech that tears the two apart, as both gazes shoot towards the civilian rushing quickly towards the markets from just beyond the hill, screaming for relief, begging in need –

“Voidsent! Voidsent – they’ve come, from the towers, from _beyond_ \---”

_Ah, damn it._

And it is only but the faintest groan from them both that manages as a complaint, as the pair quickly slots themselves into gear, their simmering desires put on the sidelines for work, before they shrug at each other and rush headlong into the fray without hesitation.

A truly most normal day for them both, indeed.

\--- how unfortunate.

* * *

And it goes about as well as you’d honestly expect.

Seamlessly, considering the difference in strength from the opponents that they were normally up against. Also somewhat _painfully_ , considering that one was fighting with a raging hard-on, and the other was only all too aware of the sudden debilitating shortness of her skirt, and the accompanying problems that apparently came along with it.

Mainly that she could not seem to fight properly, which an odd problem to have - especially for one such as _her_. 

For as anyone could see – she was a Viera, and by her upbringing, whether one be from the jungles of Golmore or the Skatay Range, what she was wearing – no matter how _skimpy_ it might look to even the most carefree of Limsa’s pirates – would always look absolutely _puritanical_ in her tribe’s eyes. Things may have changed since she’d traveled the length and breadth of Hydaelyn, her understanding and experience of its cultures culminating in the manner of which she’d now dressed herself, but that one thing above all still held true.

Jazzele was not one to be afraid of showing skin. As far as she was concerned, it was her body, her source of strength. To cover it anymore then needed would be cumbersome, and she did not need the extra burden of it in battle. Whatever effects it had on anyone else was not to be her concern. 

Yet in this case, it wasn’t quite the integrity of her attire that was a problem now, no. Instead, she’d had to admit –

It was the dampness.

The dampness that’d lingered still between her thighs, of which she would become all the more aware of whenever she would so much as manage a short lunge backwards. The dampness, of which wouldn’t be such a _problem_ she would imagine, if G’raha himself did not manage a _snarl_ every time she so much as kicked a leg up in the midst of a pirouette. 

Mind her, she didn’t know how she was handling it. It was mildly uncomfortable, and distracting; even for someone as battle-hardened as her. Between slashing at a voidsent and narrowly dodging a raging Giga, she was almost far too acutely aware of how much she’d thoroughly _exposed_ herself with nearly every motion, and what the effect appeared to have on the man fighting mere ilms before her.

She was not blind. And if he’d seemed to be a bit more brusque in his attacks, his blade and shield moving with an aggression entirely unlike him – she cannot actually blame the man.

With what the slew of enemies had come to interrupt mere moments earlier, she had half a mind to bash them a little more thoroughly into the ground herself. 

But she had to look beyond that selfish desire, for now.

She could not allow herself to mull over anything more beyond this.

_( no matter how much she wanted to )_

And the very concept leaves her feeling more then a little despondent, even as she turns on her heels to dodge a club swinging sharply at her head. It is a simple enough matter to dispatch the rampaging enemy, but lost in her thoughts as she is, she fails to account for the uneven leveling of the ground behind her.

It is all Jazzele can do not to yelp, as she feels gravity begin to take hold – but then there is an arm, and then there is a body, pressing ever so solidly against the small of her back, immediately halting her descent into what was certain to be at the very least a most disorienting _stumble_. 

And she thinks for a moment that it must be G’raha that catches her once again – her heart already yearning for the notion more _furiously_ than she’d expect – yet it is the viridian green eyes that flicker above her that quickly prove that very thought false.

He is a Seeker, yes, but he is not her lover.

_( she tries to ignore how her heart deflates at that )_

“Thank you.” She intones with a faint nod, as the man smiles at her, before gently easing her back to her feet, ensuring she was on stable ground before finally letting go.

“It is my pleasure, my lady. Please do try to watch your footwork; I do not doubt your grace, but even the most unsteady footing is likely to bring any dancer to their knees.”

And it was a gallant statement, polite and kind, and more than anything actually good advice, if not one of the most basics taught to her by the Troupe Falsiam – and so she still finds herself responding to his words with gratitude, her head inclined in thanks.

“Of course, I appreciate the reminder. I’m not usually so clumsy.” An idle statement, as she flashes her blades at the ready once more.

“Of course, Warrior – for you’re not usually so distracted either, no?”

And the quiet observation is more then enough to make her _freeze_ , spine stiffening, hair prickling, as awareness races like levinstrike down her spine – slowly turning her head to latch onto the strangers emerald hues, the faintest smirk inscribed upon his lips more than enough to make her fluster.

“I – “ She begins, as the faint realization that perhaps he knew more than he was letting on gave her pause. And as she'd looked into his visage, at how he watches her with the intensity of a wild couerl, she can’t help but presume that to be _true_. “No – I don’t know what you mean, it was just a stumble.”

The calculating glint in his eyes does not calm her – not in the least. “Is that right?” He asks, his voice lowering conspicuously as he leaned forward into her space – a husky utterance on the tip of his tongue, as though a snake luring in his prey. “By all means then, Warrior; I would advise you not to stumble again. If you were to do so, however, please know... I wouldn’t mind helping you through it. I am told I have a – _generous touch_.”

And it’s not so often that she’s caught off guard like this, the female more then used to insinuations such as his. But perhaps it is the fact that she feels more than a little overly sensitive after today – when her body had been tossed back and forth through only the most conflicting of sensations, only to be denied of her desires each and every time, that it was so much harder than normal to tell if what was up from down anymore.

Regardless, try as he might, she tries not to let him get in her head. “I thank you for the offer, but – I believe I’m fine.” She reaffirms, a forced smile on her lips even as her body already begins to slowly raze, the faintest reminder of G’raha’s missing touch making her head fair swim with need.

She misses him, she misses him, she misses him so. 

**_She cannot stand it._ **

And the very concept that this man was so close, encroaching upon her space, where she could feel _his_ heat and _his_ touch and **not** G’raha’s own, was making only the shrillest of alarums rise off in her head – the urge to break free and run filling her with the faintest semblance of _panic_.

She didn’t want his attention. She didn’t want his touch. She wanted only another’s –

Only. _One_. Others.

**_Raha_.**

“Jazzele!” And like a strike of Ramuh’s thunder, his voice breaks through the creeping haze in her mind, aquamarine hues flitting away – only to widen at the Lake Cobra rushing quickly up behind her –

Well now.

 _Shite_.

“Move!” She hears the growl, mere seconds before she sees him. And she turns on her heels, a quick flicker of air, before her eyes shoot wide open in surprise.

_“Raha!”_

And it is all she can stand to yell, as he takes the swipe of the Cobra’s tail for her, tumbling off into the sidelines, smashing against a crystal and then down a short cliff – and Jazzele, for all her well-known calm and stability in the midst of even the most chaotic of battlefields – in that very moment sees **red**.

A brief flicker of her blades, a flash of steel, and the Cobra knows no more.

And there are so very few stragglers that remain, that the female throws caution to the wind – dashing down the cliff and bounding up alongside him, already pressing glowing green hands against his wounded side as she fret.

“By the Twelve, are you alright?” She asks, as her hands glimmer a sharp vibrant sheen, as she edges glowing aether into the midst of his open wound; a large gash along the side of his abdomen, his frame twitching as he gasps in evident, crippling pain –

“I’m fine – “ He hisses, already in a show of stubbornness, before the words edge off into a _growl_. A snarl as he grits his teeth, as crimson hues shoot upwards towards the cliff – hackles raised as he recognizes the Seeker, that once again seems more than ready to bound towards their side –

“Is everything okay?” The stranger chances to call out, as though considering if he should dare make the plunge.

But G’raha, gods absolutely fucking help him, cannot contain his absolute **_rage_**.

“We’re fine!” He bites out, so sharply, so _vehemently_ , that Jazzele’s magic stutters in response.

To say she was surprised was an absolute understatement.

“G’raha, please.” She hisses, entirely conscious of how _on edge_ he suddenly seemed to be; physically vibrating and shuddering in frequent intervals, the wild flicker of his aether near erratic enough to affect even herself. “Calm yourself, he’s just – “

 _“ **He’s touched you**_.” He snarls, nostrils flaring, eyes vivid and blazing – as he turns to stare directly into her eyes, his lips curved downwards in absolute _vexation_.

As abrupt as it is, after the chaotic flurry of what’d just occurred – she does not quite make the connection. “ _What_?”

And in a rare show of impatience does he bare his teeth _at her_ , all teeth and fangs, and oh but can she not _help_ the way her core clenches with shuddering _need_ at the sight of it.

“He. Touched. You. He touched you and had the _gall_ to flirt with you, pressing himself against you, as he was offering to _take you_ – !” He continues in gradually spiking fury, his eyes so much as refusing to turn from hers, as though forcing her to _listen_ – to acknowledge him, in this moment and in this space, as though she could ever even think to do anything _but_.

_( for it is beyond her now, she knows it )_

**_and she hopes he knows it, too._ **

But it is an idle thought, one that flits away from the forefront of her mind, when his words finally start to _make sense_. And by the Twelve if she isn’t thoroughly _disturbed_. “By the gods, you heard that.”

And his eyes as they stare at her seem almost _accusing_ , his very blood seeming to boil at the thought. “Every. Single. _Word_.”

The intensity of his gaze makes her heart race ruthlessly in her chest; pulse thundering, breath hitching, even as her tongue slips out to lave against her lower lip in careless thought...

His gaze flickers to her mouth so quickly, so sharply at that – that she cannot help but _respond_.

“My love – “ She whispers in ardent plea, already willing to place herself against the mercy of his touch, before her words are cut short once again by the second call of their unwitting eavesdropper – of who finally makes her nigh endless patience _snap_.

_Godsdammit!_

“We’re fine!” Jazzele finally bellows, as her head turns in swift exasperation; her blue eyes bright and vivid, tempestuous, and furious, teeth grit as she glared up at the man who’d singlehandedly forced already blazing tensions to _rise_. “I’ll take care of this – please, just _leave_!”

And she can still see how he hesitates, how he must weigh the truth of her words against what he must see before him – a setting of which she can scarcely imagine, as she burns from _without_ deep within...

But she does not dare give him the chance to act otherwise. 

With a flick of her wrist does her soul stone change, pink quartz traded in for amber gold, and with an expert use of aether does she swiftly shove the man backwards – a reverse _Rescue_ so to speak – before he’s disappeared off the edge of the cliff with a cry, to finally leave the pair alone in reticent silence.

It lasts for all of a single breath.

Before she finds herself colliding into him with a _fury_.

And it is _his_ hands upon her waist that make her blood boil, _her_ hands against his chest that make him _squirm_ ; they are a mess of rampant, scorching desire as he takes her upon his thighs with a violence yet unseen – her skirt hiking up her thighs, her legs encased seamlessly around his own, as his lips positively ached for her, his length desperately yearning to take refuge _within_ her –

But yet again - even with all of the raw need that runs a blazing fire through his veins, does he somehow find the strength to stop himself; as his hands quickly force her hips to still, mere ilms above his waist, as his head pressed against her neck, to but breathe in the scent of her skin, to relish in the faint heat of her touch – and he is so close, and yet he is so far - 

And she does not take to that like she should. 

“G’raha, _why_ – “

And it is the shattered, broken keen of her voice that brings his very being into _ruin_.

Yet he does not yet grace her with an answer right away, even as the female writhes above him in near overwhelming need, nails digging harshly into the fabric at his shoulders, as she makes to roll her hips against the bulge straining along his breeches, her sense of self finally stumbling off into sheer oblivion…

“No.” He finally bites out, a ragged, broken hiss – even as he presses his face against the clothed swell of her chest, lips mouthing over the fabric, even as he resists the urge to rock upwards into her already awaiting heat –

No.

No, no, no!

**_He would not have it!_ **

“Behave, Jazzele.” He quickly grounds out, as his eyes shoot up towards hers in a glare, his hands clenching over her thighs with a raw, rapid _fury_ –

“I will not!” She heatedly exclaims, as her own impatience finally rears its damn bloody head. “You are _in pain_ , Raha! Positively aching, do not deny it!”

 _“I will not deny it!”_ He hisses back as he finally forces her to grind down against his length, even the short fluttering, _quivering_ feel of her folds nearly succulent enough to make them both come apart on his hips alone. “I do not deny that I wish to take you upon your back, to claim and mark and fill you so _full_ with my spend that it is all you can do not to absolutely _swell_ with it! So that you might walk back to the Toll with my essence running down your legs, so that men like that Seeker and any others need never again imagine a place between your thighs!" 

And he watches the way she convulses in response to his words – watches the way she can barely stand to _breathe_ – “Then why do you stop yourself?!” She demands, her voice edging on a hushed whisper. “Take me. Take me and claim me, Raha, as only you can. You do not _need_ to hold yourself back.”

And he bristles with the sheer frenzy of what she speaks, as his arousal for her spikes in frenetic, frantic waves; his member near fit to burst with the staggeringly painful urge to _breed_.

He so barely finds the words to _respond_. But respond, **he must.**

“I will not.” He declares against the faintest heat of her lips – his voice a firm, if not staggered, broken thing, even as his ironclad restraint wavers in the scorching midst of it all. “I will not take you. I will not claim you. Not until tonight, as I have promised, my love,” he intones, a darkly heated whisper, speaking over the desperate invocation of his name – “as we have agreed, as you have asked – no matter how much you _beg_.”

And it _ruins_ her – beyond any and all doubt, that this is what they had come to.

This mess of overwhelming and incendiary need, as they sat together upon the crystal plains of Mor Dhona, with their hips pressed together, and their lips so close, with both their bodies absolutely begging for _relief_.

It is more contact with him then she has had all day, yet still - it is a relief that would not come.

_She could cry._

“Then let me take care of you.” She breathes, a sweet and tempestuous whisper, as her digits glide against the fabric upon his chest – to brush against the front of his breeches – to just feel the way he _throbs_. He immediately snatches her hand in his own at that, the first entangled brush of skin on skin only serving to make his member _ache_ – “It isn’t healthy, to restrain yourself _this_ much, and you know that. Please… you helped me get off earlier. Let me help you gets yours.”

And it is an ever so tempting offer for him, to take of her what she bargains. But as his eyes stare into her own, as he feels himself thrum with the ever-increasing _heat_ of his lust –

He finds he can only accept so much.

And he would not dare to ruin this for them both.

“No, I will not take your touch.” He intones, once again, and yet before she can berate him, her lips already poised in a scowl – he cuts her off, with naught but one simple assent. “But I will take your relief – through other means of which you can still provide.”

And his sudden, if not mildly confusing acquiescence to her finally brings her up short – protestations frozen clear upon her tongue, in deference instead to understand what exactly it is that he intends.

“…what do you mean?” She finally asks, after but a moment – when it seems clear that he wasn’t merely pacifying her.

His fingers against her hips dig in, sharply against the lines of her waist – as he releases her hand and takes great pains to maneuver her backwards, just an ilm just further from his touch – just so he could finally reach down and undo his breeches between.

And by the _Twelve_ , he’s not sure who groans louder between them both – whether it be him, to be finally released from such constantly _constrained_ restrictions, or Jazzele – who feels her thighs tremble anew in raw, desperate, unadulterated _need_ as she finally catches sight of him. 

And she has to press her hands into the flesh of her thighs, as her every focus narrows in on his pulsing, naked length – of which swells with a fury of which she had never before seen, the urge to take him upon her tongue, to feel him throb against her lips almost blinding, most _intoxicating_ – that she can literally feel herself drip once more at the mere _thought_ of it.

Her core clenches insistently between her thighs, as she hovers over him with barely repressed _want_ – and as her eyes trace over the bead of which weeps from his tip, she finds she has to actively find words left to speak. “Tell me what you need.”

His eyes are a glint of rubies from beneath the fringe of his bangs, his hand already stroking along the swollen head of his cock, hissing as the sensitivity of his own touch near makes him fit to _burst_.

But it is a tenuous process, after such dire restraints, and one he does not wish to rush. Not when she looks at him with such hunger, with such want - not when she looks at him with such ardent, fervent _need_.

A need of which only he would satisfy for her, if he'd had anything to say about it. _But first -_

He settles back along the surface of the crystal behind him, gets himself just a bit more comfortable - and then, his voice, when it finally ushers from his lips – brooks absolutely no argument.

“Show yourself to me.”

_Oh gods._


	4. if i were to tell you, of all the things you do to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this where i go to horny jail now?

_Show yourself to me._

* * *

It is a fine measure of words - naught but a heated simmer upon his lips, naught but a quiet declaration of intent.

For it is not at all phrased as a request.

But it is instead an absolute _demand_.

And Jazzele, for all her strengths and blessings and force of will combined, cannot help but _attune_ to it in every mortal way possible.

She cannot help but innately give herself to him, _in any way that he asks._

“Raha.” She breathes, for it is all she can stand to say in answer as she gazes at him; all wide blue eyes and mussed lilac hair, rose flushed skin and shuddering lust emanating from her svelte form in _waves_.

It is an absolutely gorgeous look on her, really. Exquisite. Delightful. Truly and utterly, genuinely beautiful.

For she _is_ so beautiful to him. In a myriad of ways of which he could wax poetic, on any other day.

But today is not that day. And it is not enough. Not _nearly_ enough.

\--- he wants to know how much more of this she can take.

“Let me see you, Jazzele.” He utters again, his voice an alluring siren song, coaxing her into his enchantment with naught but a whisper and the faintest hint of a plead – as he stroked a hand purposefully along the full weight of his length, the swollen tip of him throbbing at attention, looking near fit to burst at the seams. “I would ask you of this, my love – _please_.”

And the request alone feels almost like a shock to the system, she idly realizes, as she knows – as does he – that he is one that does not _need_ to **beg**. Had she not but told him the same thing mere moments before?

He could take of her, as much as he could ever want, in any and every way possible, and she would not balk.

But the mere fact that he does ask – that he does plead – with no semblance of shame but instead sheer unadulterated _need_ …

She cannot bear to leave him hanging like this _again_.

“As you wish, Raha.” Jazzele finally intones, a nod of her head in soft acquiesce, before slowly and surely, and with every ounce of intent – does she finally begin to **move**.

To grant him and tease him with the sight of what he’d ever so politely asked for –

_She would make of this a blessing._

Slowly and sensually, over the smooth cotton folds of her blouse, does her hand drift. Plum fabric that shifts beneath slender fingertips, as they inch across covered flesh that’d fair simmered beneath the glow of his scarlet eyes – as her every gesture kept him riveted, enraptured by her every move.

And she’s well aware where they are, in the dimmest point of her mind – outside in clear view of any who might ever to dare make the odd trip to the outskirts. Adventurers and researchers alike braved these roads, not to mention that very particular Seeker who’d been the only witness to their tumultuous tumble down the cliff. If he’d so much as _dared_ to interrupt them once again, he would find quite a sight.

But as her finger’s curve around the soft swells of her flesh, molding themselves against her skin as her breath faltered in shuddered cry, she finds she literally could not care less if they were to get caught.

Whether it be by Scion or mentor, by closest friends or confidants, did not dare _stop_.

Not when G’raha Tia begged for her so. Not when he burned for her like _this_.

_She would relieve him of his ache._

**_She’d swear it._ **

“How much of me exactly – do you wish to see?” She brings herself to ask, in dulcet tones and quiet whispers, as her heart beats a staccato rhythm within the confines of her chest. 

Her fingertips splay across the full width of her breast as she waits for his answer, grasping against herself in a way that he might ascertain their fullness, and it’s with clear flickers of delight that she notices the way his hand slowly begins to stroke himself harder as he goes, the way his eyes remain entirely riveted on her digits alone.

She brings a thumb idly towards a stiffly covered peak, flicking a nail against it with deliberate intent, and even as her own breath hitches and she bites back a whimper, does she have the absolute _pleasure_ of catching the way his hips jerk upwards in response.

 _Oh gods_ , she preens, even as he _hisses_ in absolute frustration below her so.

Ah, but he did always have such a genuine appreciation for her breasts.

And amidst the simmer of all this lust, does the knowledge still serve to make her _smile_.

She would make this so easy for him.

“Everything.” Raha finally responds, voice tearing itself from his throat on the edge of a short growl – as he arches back against the crystal and continues his steady ministrations upon his length, running his thumb across the tip to coat his digits in his own slick, so that he might stroke along himself with more ease.

And it is a trial in itself, considering that his lover was right there, practically dripping onto his cock. She need only rub herself against him, and he would have more than enough of her essence to glide along himself smoothly.

But again, he is reminded - that this is a test of restraint, in each and every single way that could possibly matter.

He would not give in.

Not now. _Not yet._

For even as tremulous as this all is to him, as arduously _painful_ it might be as his length pulses against his thighs in utter need, does he still have enough coherency left in him to admire her entirely; his eyes roving over soft curves and intimate spaces, with all the interest of an artist appreciating a marble carving. “Everything,” he continues, “of which you are willing to show me. You know I do not tire of the sight of you, Jazzele. I would spend myself merely upon the sight of your breasts, as glorious as they are, if only you were to allow me but a glimpse.”

And his words send a frisson of thrill shooting down the length of her spine, at the mere concept that she would have such influence over him so. That she might even walk back to town with his cum littered along the swells of her bosom, so that everyone might know the proof of what they’d done.

She feels herself go nearly weak at the thought, a needy whimper falling from her lips, yet somehow still does she manage a flittering smirk in response; an affectionate warmth for him suffusing her, even against all the lust that burns along with it.

“You would set your sights so low, my love?” She asks him, a quiet tease of listless proportions, playing the part of a vixen well. “When you might have the whole experience instead?”

And a delicate finger gently trails along the top of her cleavage, dipping into the space between her breasts – an entirely light hand, an entirely delicate touch – but it pulls the fabric down against her skin just so, so that she might have the pleasure of watching as his eyes _narrow_.

She does not imagine the growl that emanates from his throat, does not miss the way his hand _tightens_ along the base of his cock.

She does not imagine it, yet she dare not mention it either.

It is enough for her at this moment, just to _watch_.

“You know I would allow you much and more than just that, G’raha Tia.” She breathes, as she unties the string holding the front of her top together, unfurling it with all the grace of a dancer; her hands steady even as heart shudders in audible thumps, his eyes focused upon the gradual reveal of skin, with what could only be considered an absolute _carnal_ ferocity.

Hydaelyn take her – she nearly keens, as she waits with bated breath, as her breasts are finally revealed to his devoted gaze –

_but by the gods, she would willingly burn alive for this man if he’d so much as **asked** , she’d swear it. _

For all that her heart had come to beat for him alone, for all that her very body and soul yearned for only his touch, his kiss, his _everything_ …

Truly. The hold he'd had on her was utterly incomprehensible. 

And yet she would have it no other way.

“Beyond any other, whether it be on this shard or the First or even further," she continues, "you know you would be the only one with the right, the only one I would _ever_ allow to have me like this… in the middle of a field, at your very _mercy_. Raha, my love --" a pause, a breath, a _plead_. "you need only **_ask_**.”

And there is something entirely enticing about being left bare like this before him, stiff peaks at attention, pebbled hard against the whispers of frost sparked by the crystals influence. It makes something fluster within her, to see the way he _stares_ ; his own breath having stumbled, the pace of his strokes amplified, as his eyes zeroed in on the full and heavy swells of her breasts, as she’d touched along herself with a delicacy of which he could only _envy_.

His tail thumps fervently along behind him, seemingly as incensed as the very man it is attached to, and _good gods,_ but does he wear the look of desire well.

_What she would give just to please him._

“But, if you will not, then I suppose I must ask instead for the both of us.” She utters against the ensuing silence, voice lilting just above the rough pants and heady thrums of desire that issued from them both; as she tilts her head sideways, lilac strands brushing along her neck, a gentle squeeze along a pert breast – just enough to make her _moan_.

The way his frame stiffens in attention at that is nearly overwhelming in itself.

_For him - she cannot help but want to **burn**._

“Tell me what you would do to me, Raha.”

And her request calls to him in whispers of seduction beyond compare, as he’d growled at her in answer, a broken snarl caught in his throat, as he runs his hand fervently across the swell of his prick, over the dripping slit of the head, in the beginnings of just barely restrained _violence_.

“What I would do to you…” he begins in low husky tones, a sacredness clear in his voice, as though he were reciting the most intricate of Allagan history hidden in the deepest depths of his mind. “Jazzele Danzleikr, my love – tell me instead of what I would _not_. Looking upon you like this as you touch yourself, as you bare yourself to my eyes alone – amid these ruins do I ache to ravage you _entirely_ ; to press my lips, my _teeth_ against your neck, down the slope of your skin, to those gorgeous, flawless _tits_ beyond compare. The urge to burrow myself against you is unlike anything else I’ve ever felt before, Jazzele – and by the gods, but how _earnestly_ do I still **yearn for it**.”

And his is a devoted, ardent litany upon his lips, even as his hand surged along the fullness of himself with no small amount of need, as scarlet hues remained ever fixated on the woman pleasing herself mere ilms before him, catering to only his most lurid of fantasies with a fervor most pronounced.

It is as a dream come true for him already – and yet still. Still would he ask her for _more_.

The selfishness of his heart would truly know no bounds when it came to her.

 _He could only hope that she might one day understand the sheer **extent** of it._ “My love, my dearest heart – “ he intones, even as his words faltered on the edge of pure need – “you are my most _beloved_ beyond all else, my most treasured dream, yet forgive me in this moment for how much I wish to truly _ruin_ _you_ beyond comprehension.”

And his hand twists viciously along his throbbing length with the admission, as the confession draws to him images of her so vividly _clear_ , that he could nearly _weep_ from it. The urge to gather her in his arms – the desire to kiss her as he lay her bare upon his garments, to hitch her legs against his waist as they entwined themselves together beneath the sunlight of the Mor Dhona plains, to find delight in the shimmers and patterns that’d glinted across crystal mines and reflected against her skin in myriad ways.

To have the crystals glow breathe upon the softness of her curves, as he took her upon himself with a fervor so intense it was all he could do not to _implode_ from it. To watch her come apart beneath his touch, to watch her shudder and quiver and shake, with his name ragged upon her lips, as she clenched around him like velvet _so_ …

An utterly divine experience, a sensation of which he would so eagerly _drown_ himself within.

For there was paradise to be found within her thighs; a dream within a dream, to be laid bare beneath the heat of his tongue.

And his crimson hues flicker with torrents of need at the thought, as he strokes himself from base to tip, sleek with the visions she inspired with him, even as the feel of his spoken hand lay entirely inadequate next to the sheer _reminder_ of her touch. “To take you and fill you, to but _breathe_ upon the sweetness of your skin, as I laved my tongue against your every curve… Jazzele – how utterly you would complete me. And I would devote myself to you fully, so that you might _shatter_ within my arms – and you would not know what it was to be bereft, my love, for I would sooner entwine my very essence against yours then leave you to fracture on your own.”

A desire so fervent for him, so entirely consuming – that even as he speaks it does he have to resist the urge to come apart, his hips jerking beneath her thighs, his voice ragged and husky in the burning throes of desire.

But still he does not come apart, still he does not break.

Still – he would not give in.

For he sees the way she responds to him, sees the way she _mewls_ , as his every whispered word makes her own pleasure spike – as his every utterance brings her further to the brink. Slender digits drifting across the swells of her bosom, to cup and squeeze herself in the faint mimicry of his own spoken hands. It brings a sense of desperation to her glorious image, and what a sensual picture she does make – all flushed skin and broken cries, combined against the harsh heaving of her chest.

And in the midst of it all does he manage a look beyond that, to but capture her eyes against his – a flickering smile curling against his lips, the warmth of absolute adoration glimmering within –

“What I would give to interlace myself against you, Jazz – for the rest of my waking days. My heart, my very soul – in your arms would it know endless peace.”

And his words are so fervent, so devoted – that something within her catches at the sound of it, and even in the throes of her own yearning does her heart swell, the whorls of affection for this man overflowing deep within. 

It is a touch of tenderness, in what has become a mess of incendiary circumstance. And she is left lambasted with need, even as she touches herself with shuddering urgency; for it is as though the whole world has stalled and come to exist for them alone in this very moment, and they could but imagine nothing more beyond it.

_For even with her duties and responsibilities to the rest of the world at large rallying against the sanest parts of her mind, can she still not help but think, but wonder –_

_Of how she could but truly **wish** for nothing **more then this**. _

“Raha, _please_ ,” Jazzele outright pleads, her breathing hitching in broken turns, pressing her forehead against his as her desire began to reach fever pitch, a hand drifting down her abdomen, to press along the apex of her thighs in utter need. “I beg you, do not stop. I do not think I could _manage_ – “ And she stutters off into the beginnings of a broken whimper, as her hips surge against her hand in a theme of reckless abandon.

She is an utter mess upon his thighs, a sharp contrast to the woman so usually put together when without, and he can’t help but feel more than a little bit of _pride_ at that – as he smiles and he soothes, his soft voice coaxing along the scant space between their lips, crimson hues slipping shut for only but a moment – before he manages to look upon her once more with a darkness glimmering within, as the invocation of his name brought to bear a hunger most _feral_.

“More, you beg?” He whispers, as his breath whispers against the hitch of her own, as the throb of his cock sharpens into an absolute _frenzy_. “Let me tell you more then, Jazzele. Of how much I wish to slip myself between your thighs at this very moment, to press my tongue against every ilm of skin that would lead me to where you positively _weep_. To take your skin between my teeth and leave every mark, before inching my way ever upwards, to where you _beg_ for me the most. So that I might slip my tongue against your smalls, and feel the way you _throb_ beyond it – “

And she keens with his words, as she drags her fingers against herself, inching just beneath the fabric – to hike up her skirt and reveal herself to his burning gaze –

 _And oh,_ **_but_** **_the fucking sight._**

She is positively seeping, quivering, drenched against her smalls with a layer of dampness enough to set his very blood _aflame_. To watch her essence drip down her thighs with a glimmer so pronounced sets off the heat of a thousand suns to burn against him from within, even as he watches with bated breath as she peels the soaked material gently to the side, so he might finally look upon her dripping heat laid bare…

_Fuck, fuck, **fuck**!_

He loses a part of himself, right then and there.

His eyes sharpen, his fangs glint – his hand pumps along his length with a wild fury as all he can focus on is her musk, her scent, the liquid that trickles down her thighs even as her fingers shift to sink within –

And he feels the way he burns _alive_ inside, unable to cope with the frenzy that sings against his very blood – as he dissolves into the faintest, barest hint of himself, to attune himself against her very _existence_.

“Jazzele – please,” he grates, as his lips brushed ever so slightly against her own, as he breathed in her gasps, her moans, the cries of her pleasure like a man starved for _air_ – “by the Twelve – you have no idea – the things that you do to me – “ and he feels himself unraveling the more that he speaks, the more that he drowns himself in the heat and smell and _sound_ of her –

_He could never get enough._

“I starve for you – “ he gasped, “I thirst for you – in so many different ways. From your lips, to your voice – even the mere _sight_ of you takes me beyond, my love.” And he cannot help but whisper these words into her flesh, against her neck, as he bucks his hips into her thighs, stimulating himself into a delirium that bordered on _crazed_.

“For how exquisite you look when you ride me – the way your breasts sway as you take your pleasure, soft and resplendent, mere ilms from my lips. How often I have wanted to bury myself against your tits, to feel the swell of you upon my tongue as you took me within your velvet heat. How often I have come to the barest _image_ of that alone, in every fantasy I have ever had of you – whether it be from within this body, or even the one that’d come _before_.”

And it’s the reminder of his absolute devotion that nearly makes her break, as she curls her fingers past her seeping folds, brushing against her clit as she'd fucked herself into oblivion, as her mind threatened to just about shut down. 

“What I would give to have had you _take_ me back then, Raha –“ she cries, nearly bursting at the seams from the emotions of which he’d inspired within her. “The things I would have asked you to do – in the tower – in the Ocular – “

“I would have _gladly_.” Raha proclaims, a gruff sound within his throat, as the very thought seems to bring him to a brink beyond repair. “I would have had you with only the utmost _pleasure_ – I would have ravaged you, worshipped you, taken you against my tongue like a man dying of _thirst_!” And he shudders against something incomprehensible, as the concept jars at a primal consciousness that dwelled deep within. “To breathe you in, and claim you, to raze you from without, until you were a trembling quiver upon my shoulders, my love, breaking against my lips – until you were begging for me to _stop_.”

And it is an incendiary _need_ that boils within him from but two separate wills combined: the memory of an old man, and the youthful consciousness of another. For he is reminded of his lust – of his _love_ – for this one incredible woman that’d writhed against him – his inherent affections, that’d followed him in the spaces between one shard and the next.

One that’d simmered faithfully, long and far beyond the limitations of his short mortal life.

He would not forsake this chance with her _again_.

And he breathes in that concept, lets it take control, as he runs his tongue against her skin, breathing in her scent like a man possessed. “But I would _not_.” He whispers, “Because every bead of your essence is a fortune beyond compare, and I would have all of you, _all of it_ , that I might never let a single flicker of it go to waste.”

 _“Raha, oh gods!”_ A keening cry in answer, as the imagery became almost too much; Jazzele feeling herself beginning to slip over the edge as her fingers curled against her sleek heat, imagining what it was to have _him_ be the one pulsing deep within her, _his_ fingers sinking into her core, _his_ tongue laving at her clit.

And he must see the way her slick comes to drip down her hand, as he picks up his pace and strokes himself with a blind passion, the precum beading at his tip near overflowing. For it is all too much, and yet it is still not yet nearly enough!

_He wanted more. He needed more._

**_He needed her._ **

“Azeyma help me, please – the things you do to me, Jazzele – “ he whimpers again, as he pumps himself with increasing _urgency_ – “Please, my love – I must see you come apart – I must see you - _with me_ \--“

“I – I can’t – “ Jazzele cries, even as her hips quiver upon his thighs, even as her very being trembles and burns in equal measure – “Raha, I _can’t_ – “

“Jazzele?! G’raha?! Are you out there?”

And it is with the deepest flickers of almost violent fear that the pair stiffen, at once _recognizing_ the voice that calls to them beyond the cliff, the voice of the **one man** that would never ever let them live this down if ever he were to find them.

Thancred.

Fucking. Goddamn. **_Thancred_**.

Of all the shite – 

“I – “ Jazzele begins, a deep panic coursing swift within her as she realizes the perplexities of what he’d find, pulling her digits from her seeping core – her body already _rejecting_ the loss with every ounce of pure need, as she pulls at her smalls and her blouse with fumbling, shaking hands –

“I’ll - I'll head him off, make sure he _leaves_ – “ Just long enough for G’raha to find release, to put himself back together, enough to avoid any _questions_ – !

Oh, but he would not have that.

 ** _“No, you will not!”_** G’raha just about snarls – as his hand reaches out beyond himself, to grasp against her wrist and tug her down against his upturned knee – of which he places the bend just against the cleft between her thighs, his breath easing against her lips, as into shimmering blue eyes does he _demand_ – “You will take yourself upon my knee and find your release against me, Jazzele – or so help me, I will take you upon my cock right here and now, and Thancred will happen upon something far **_worse_**.”

And it’s an absolute pitch in intensity from how he’d usually respond to something as scandalous as this – a fact normally shared between them both. He’d had too much respect for the other Scion’s normally, as he’d had too much respect for her, to take himself upon her so _cravenly_.

And yet perhaps it speaks instead to how far this has driven the pair, that they’ve both come to disregard such crucial appearances in favor of themselves.

For even with Thancred’s voice weaving in her ear, quickly followed by the sound of _another_ that follows just beyond, does she find it in herself to do as he demands – with a shuddering cry, a broken whimper, and with absolute _aplomb_.

She places her hands against his shoulders, her forehead against his, and with a quiet whisper of his name – _does she grind._

Against his leg, against his knee, with her dripping slit dragging against the fabric of his breeches, as she rubbed herself against the taut limb with all the passion of a woman in heat.

And he watches her with all the awe of a man in _love_ , in _lust_ , with sheer debilitating _desire_ – as he pumps himself harder, faster, breaths coming in shuddering waves, panting hard against their lips as they’d attuned to each other in that very moment – in that lone bubble – his tail curling about her thigh in absolute _need_ –

“Jazz – “

“Raha – !”

_Please, please, **please** -! _

And it's with a simultaneous cry of their names - his, her own, to be but breathed against the heat of each other lips as they finally fall apart; gasping, breaking, in effervescent **_passion_** -

And really.

That’s all it takes.

( one.

 **two**.

 ** _three_**. )

And she comes apart upon him with a keening cry, her breaths coming in fervent gasps, as he spends himself upon her in nearly the same moment – cum surging from his tip without cease, in spurts and jerks and shudders, spilling upon her open thighs as he _growled_.

And it is mere seconds of a moment that passes, even as it feels like days – as tight tendrils of tension unfurl within them at a gradual whisper, to soothe across their trembling frames with a languidness beyond design.

She is still shaking, she is still quivering, and he is still so utterly lost in her…but they do not have enough time left to linger in it.

For by the time Thancred pops his head over the cliff, to peer down into the short chasm – does he already see the pair standing up, their clothes in evident disarray, legs tremulous, and with G’raha leaning against Jazzele with a noticeable slump, with a mote of worry rising up within him at the sight. 

“Oy, you two alright down there? Need any help?”

And Jazzele – bless her soul – is just about lucid enough to raise her eyes skyward, to flash a trembling smile back at the male, a swift shake of her head in response. “We’re fine! Raha just had a stumble, but I’ve healed enough of it. We’ll be back in town soon enough!”

And despite knowing her strengths, knowing exactly what it was that she was capable of, can the Scion not help but wonder a bit at that, considering that G’raha seemed entirely incapable of responding in the least – his head angled towards Jazzele’s side, as though he could not for the life of him bring himself to lift his own head.

“Right… you good down there, G’raha?”

He makes it a point to call it out, just because ( considering these two tended to have the worst track record when it came to their health, to be absolutely fair ) – yet he does not miss the chill that runs sharply down his spine at the flash of scarlet that finds him, a sense of feral intensity in the Seeker’s eyes that if he’d been a lesser man would nearly make him _run_ – back down the cliffs and into the safety of the Stones, as he finds himself interrupting something of which he’s not quite sure he yet _understands_.

But Thancred is one not so easily scared off. And so he finds himself connecting with those Allagan hues for far more than a few seconds, before finally does his voice carry in the wind towards him – gruff and low, and with barely the hint of a _snarl_.

“We’re fine.”

Fine.

Fine, _indeed_.

Are those not the very same words that’d left them to burn alive together then?

Jazzele cannot help but consider that, even as she presses her thighs together in self conscious shame.

“Go ahead, Thancred.” She pipes up once more, in the hopes she ease the tensions of the moment at hand. “We’ll manage – be right behind you.”

A smile that remains on her lips, just long enough until she sees the man in question nod; before his figure finally disappears over the cliff side, to call out to whoever it was that’d apparently remained along with him –

And leporine ears hear the tones of a faintly familiar voice, the same timbre of whoever had been the cause of this all in the first place –

And G’raha’s brusque countenance suddenly makes so much more sense.

“He has not touched me,” she finds herself whispering beneath her breath, her nerves shuddering against the beating of her own heart. “and it is not exactly his cum that currently litters my thighs, my love. So please calm yourself – “ she pleads, as she turns to look at him with a soft frown. “It would not do for you to be on such edge in your state.”

And despite himself can G’raha not help his _snarl_ , his tail curling tighter around her thigh where it had yet to let go – with her just barely managing to handle both of their feeble balances on her still shaky limbs. “It would _not_ do, no. But I still do not appreciate him for _interrupting_ us at every turn.” He huffs, before after a short moment does he somehow manage a small shrug, the light in his eyes suddenly glimmering with a consideration most _concerning_. “Not that it really matters now, I suppose.”

And Jazzele finds herself holding back a small squeal, as swiftly does he reach downwards beneath her skirt to snag his fingers into the folds of her smalls, tearing the damp fabric from her still dripping heat without warning.

She presses her trembling thighs tighter together at the loss, but with Raha’s auburn tail wedged between them both, she finds she’s suddenly at a stalemate – left wondering on how exactly she was to prevent herself from dripping onto his fur, when she felt herself stiffen ever further, as after a moment does he inch it up her skin - to brush along the folds of her slit with nothing but the velvet tip. 

“Let him smell you.” He finally says instead, as his hooded eyes gazed intently into hers, as he’d nuzzled into the swell of her chest with a husky sigh, breathing against the heat of her skin with a comfort. “Let him see if he so _must_. So that he might finally recognize his failings, for he will never manage a chance with you - not in this lifetime." 

Not in any of them. Not if he could help it.

He would even go so far as to personally _guarantee it._

And despite that she'd just come apart against him, despite that she was still dripping something awful - does Jazzele somehow manage to still feel herself begin to raze anew, as they begin their slow trek back up the slope, back to the whispers of the Toll – with their intertwined essences literally dripping down her thighs, a clear and obvious message for any who would dare to look too _close_.

But she cannot help but feel herself begin to burn about from something even **more**. 

For the sun was setting low on the horizon, and the dusky hues of twilight were beginning to seep in. 

Even against all else, was she still so keenly _aware_. 

Her tongue laving against her lower lip, as she'd chanced a glance down against the man that'd held himself against her - his purr rumbling just against the swell of her breast, his tail sweeping purposefully along the space between her thighs... 

The way he’d had her wrapped around his finger to no end –

_This man would absolutely ruin her if she so much as gave him the chance._

**_And by the gods, but she would absolutely let him._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiyaaa! thanks for reading this far, & i hope you enjoyed the chapter! THIS ACTUALLY HAD ANOTHER 2K WORDS TO IT THAT I DELETED AT THE LAST MOMENT, just because it was leading somewhere i wasn't completely sold on, and so I switched tracks at the last, last minute. ( i hope its not too obvious dbsahdba sorry this ending isn't as climatic as i'd like or as meaty beyond the sexy times !! but i promise the 5th chapter will sync all those pieces together - i will try ! really, this chapter is just porn, i apologize for that !! ) 
> 
> but thank you for the lovely comments you guys leave me, they really do serve to give me life!!! and i'm migrating to the us in like. two months. so while my days have been stressful and very, very busy, this has really been such a fun thing to think about on the side, and i shit you not I SQUEAL WHEN I READ YOUR COMMENTS!! and i appreciate that you guys enjoy it! i'm not sure when i'll get the last chapter up bec i'm gonna be busy for a little bit, but i will try for within two weeks, tops! 😅🤗 thank u for your support, thank you for reading, stay safe, healthy and happy, and i hope you have a great week!

**Author's Note:**

> boop me on twitter so u can watch me have an existential crisis as i write: x_ladyj
> 
> also, come join the book club!! everyone is an enabler, and u get fun snippets to inspire you on the daily! g'raha tia emojis to boot <3
> 
> https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic


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